


the middle place between light and nowhere

by threeplusfire



Series: Bad Things Come In Threes [13]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Blow Jobs, Death, Fae manipulation, M/M, Multi, Murder, Urban Magic Yogs, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every king needs a crown. The city seethes, unbalanced by their actions, and the Garbage Court searches for a crown from the museums to the malls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the middle place between light and nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about because I started talking with walfs about the Garbage Court in the mall. Along the way, it grew into something bigger and stranger. My eternal gratitude to Leon and Eirwyn for their early reader comments, and appreciating the absurd amount of googling for museum jewelry pieces I did while writing.

It was mostly empty, but just enough beer splashed from the overturned can to puddle on the coffee table. Cheap beer soaked into the stiff paper crown, creased and tattered with wear. The can rolled to the floor by Trott’s foot with a muted clink.

“Fuck,” Smith groaned, pulling the soggy paper off the table. He wondered if they had any more of them, or if this was the last one. His lip curled at the mess, and he flicked drops of beer off his fingers.

“We need to get him a real crown,” Trott commented, his eyes wide and thoughtful in the dim glow from the television. He cradled his own beer in both hands, narrow fingers wrapped around the aluminum can.

“This is- was, a real crown.” It tore in Smith’s hands, the translucent coating peeling up from the thin cardboard. It stuck to Smith’s fingers, forcing him to scrape it off with a nail. He wiped his hands on the edge of the sofa, grimacing at the residual stickiness. Everything was just slightly too dingy, a little sticky or stained or worn.

“No, I mean one that won’t melt when you spill something on it.” The paper dissolved into mush, wet clumps that Trott tried to mop up with a stack of napkins left behind in an empty fast food bag. His lip curled and he swept the whole mess into a pizza box.

At the moment, Smith was inclined to agree. He glanced at Sips, who hadn’t noticed the destruction yet. He was sitting on the floor beside Ross, eating doughnuts from a paper sack. They were laughing about something, Sips’ voice loud and raucous. Early streaks of dawn were visible through the crooked, broken blinds. The living room was a mess, the wreckage of his court taking up residence in the tiny one bedroom apartment. Filled with furniture that looked as if it started life in a cheap motel before finding its way to a curb, it felt anonymous and offered no insights into the owner. The clues were all in the trash, the scattering of empty beer cans and bottles, the well worn remote for the television, the gun beside Sips’ bed, and the baseball bat behind the front door.  

“We should also find another place, maybe one with a bit more room,” Smith said. Trott nodded, and handed him another beer from the box beside the couch. Cans scattered around their feet, crumpled and empty. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and spent matches, and there were streaks of ash smeared into the thin carpet. Smith watched Sips lean drunkenly into Ross, still chuckling and wiping at his face. They shared the last doughnut, powdered sugar dusting their hands and mouths. 

Smith poked through the trash, hoping to find another paper crown leftover somewhere. He didn’t want to have to go get one with Sips smiling sardonically at him from the passenger seat. Trott watched him for a moment, weary and a little drunk himself.

“Definitely somewhere bigger,” sighed Trott. The nightly battle of who slept where was growing stale. He sat back, adjusting a threadbare pillow, and tucking his feet up underneath himself. They never meant to be here so long. Only supposed to be a temporary haunt, a dead man’s place after midwinter. But nothing had really gone the usual way, so here they were weeks later crowding the apartment with too many bodies and too much trash. They’d had a place of their own, down on the south side of the city. It was a shit hole, even compared to Sips’ tiny apartment. But a fire that destroyed most of the block had taken it, too. Trott was still miffed about it, nursing a deeper anger. He didn’t think the fire was an accident. Sometime this week, they’d have to actually look for something better.

* * *

Ross tried to remember not to swing his tail as they walked through the Saturday afternoon crowd in the museum. The high, vaulted ceilings echoed with the voices. It was easier when they were standing still. He could wind it around Trott instead, though he would poke Ross in the ribs and roll his eyes. Trott couldn’t sit in front of the same paintings for hours at a time, and he was always telling Ross it looked suspicious for him to do it. It was so easy though. The Metropolitan museum was his favorite place lately. There were few things Ross liked more than spending the day in the halls and galleries, studying the statues or the paintings or the odd exhibits of objects. There were so many things to look at, and if he got tired of the art there were always people. It was like being back in the church, but better. It soothed an ache he didn’t even have a name for.

This time Trott pulled him along with more purpose, not letting him pause in front of the enormous painting of dancers in the main gallery as he liked to do. They were looking for something for Sips, and it was all serious business apparently. Trott lead them to the west gallery, where the temporary exhibits were staged. He snagged a flier, full of photos of jewels.

“Let’s find a proper crown for the king.” Trott took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time.

“He’d probably like one made out of bottle caps,” Ross followed him more slowly, setting his feet carefully on the wide marble steps.

“I’m sure he would, and it would probably be easy given the beer consumption, but no.”

They entered the long hall, crowded with visitors and displays. A central glass case held an enormous diamond, rotating slowly in its own tiny spotlight. Several children were gathered around the case, whispering to each other and pointing at the jewel. Trott passed a case of jeweled crosses, emblems of some war. They held no interest for him. Ross paused, curious, but Trott pulled him past the display case.

“We’re going to get him a real crown, for a real king.” Trott was already hearing whispers about how their king was seen by other city fae. Some were amused, many were horrified that he wasn’t dead, and the general consensus was the Garbage Court was utterly mad for not finishing the ritual in the proper way. A crown wouldn’t fix it, but it would soothe Trott’s wounded pride. He forgot sometimes, that others here didn’t take him or their court quite seriously.

Seriously enough though, that someone burned down the building they were living in before. That was just Trott’s suspicion, and he hadn’t voiced it aloud without something to back it up. He didn’t think Kirin would do something so clumsy. He wondered how many of the older city fae knew what the ritual of misrule really did for the city’s magic. Maybe someone else with an axe to grind over a mortal king. Or just someone with an axe to grind about them, carrying their own darkness through the alleys of the city.

Trott walked past the cases of bracelets and necklaces, the elaborate parures for princesses to wear at coming out balls. They stirred memories, the glow of light on shining shell and bone, and the whisper of song. He studied a length of pale pink pearls, and thought about the kingdom under the sea. For a moment, he wondered what his sisters were doing. Trott swallowed, missing them more than he wanted to acknowledge.

“Look,” Ross murmured, excitement coloring his voice. He pulled Trott towards a case by the wall with tiers of shelves. Crowns occupied each one, gleaming even in the harsh artificial light. Trott wanted to see them by candles, or in the blaze of sunlight. Mentally he shook himself, chasing away memories and what might have beens. Ross let his chin rest on the top of Trott’s head. Trott didn’t push him away, taking comfort in his closeness. The diamonds and cut stones sparkled, bright little flashes.

“What do you think, sunshine?” Trott asked finally, shifting to look at Ross. “What should our king wear?”

Ross bent forwards, leaning until his nose was nearly touching the glass. Trott pulled him back, feeling the eyes of the security guard in the corner of the room. The noise of the crowd rose and fell around them. The glamour just kept people from noticing anything unusual, making them appear human. It wasn’t strong enough to keep everyone’s eyes off them entirely. It was just too busy to exert the effort required for that. Simpler to just appear as ordinary as possible.

“It’s hard to imagine him wearing any of these,” Ross finally said. His gaze lingered on a fanciful band of sapphires and rubies set in platinum flowers. Beside it, another tiara was all rectangular aquamarines, pale as early morning sky.

Trott sighed. He couldn’t picture Sips in any of the heavy, cross adorned crowns with their velvet puffs or the delicate tiaras with diamond spikes. They shuffled down the wall, Trott holding on to Ross’ tail both to keep track of him and to keep it out of the way of the people around them. They squeezed past a middle aged woman listening to the guided tour headset, clutching a book to her chest.

“I like this one.” Ross pointed at a crown in the next case. It glimmered with tiny diamonds set everywhere, and an enormous golden gem hung in the center like a sun. The bands were shaped into heads of wheat, stalks made of pure gold. Oak and laurel leaves in the center were similarly adorned with more diamonds. There was something very imperial about it, Trott thought. It demanded a lot of attention. He skimmed the plate beside it, a story of fallen empires and revolutions in a far off place.

“Seems very… I don’t know.” Trott made a face, scrunching up his nose. “Harvest king. Which I guess kind of works.” He tapped the brochure against his leg, considering the crown.

“Do we even know what he did before us, before here?” Ross looked sideways at Trott. “I don’t. I bet you don’t either.”

“Nope,” Trott admitted. “I doubt he was a prince though, or that he’s ever been near a field of wheat.”

“Probably not,” Ross agreed, nodding. “But there’s something so bright about that one… maybe it is all the gold. It seems like Sips, somehow.”

Trott narrowed his eyes. Maybe Ross was right. Gold did seem the right kind of flashy, and there were a lot of diamonds. Sips would probably appreciate having the most diamond encrusted crown of all. Trott was not averse to their king being a bit flashy.

“I mean, I suppose we could take it and have someone remake it into something else.” Trott crossed his arms, tucking Ross’ tail into the crook of his left.

“Gold bottle caps,” Ross suggested dryly. Trott snorted and elbowed him playfully.

“I would expect you to have a little more poetry in your soul,” he teased.

“Do we have souls?” asked Ross. “I wonder about that a lot.”

“Everyone does, sunshine.” Trott patted his tail reassuringly.

Ross peered at a tiara on a lower shelf. The sleek band of diamonds was spangled with round emeralds the size of Trott’s thumbnail. “That would look beautiful on Smith. Can we take that too?”

“Smith does not need any ideas that come with wearing a crown,” Trott said meaningfully. “We’ll get him something else.”

“What about you?” Ross gestured at platinum loops of diamonds, silver teardrop pearls dangling from them. Trott imagined how they would move, swinging with the shake of a head, the glisten of the pearls underwater.

“What about me?” Trott said lightly, turning to stare again at the gaudy golden crown with its giant yellow diamond. The more he looked at it, the more he liked it.

“Shouldn’t you have a crown?”

Trott looked at him for a moment. Ross’ bright blue eyes regarded him without a trace of guile as Trott tapped his fingers in a steady beat on Ross’ tail. He tried to think of what he’d told Ross about his life before the city.

“No,” he said finally. “That’s not really what I want.”

Ross smiled very slightly.  His tail curled around Trott’s arm, and he turned back to the display. The woman in the headset bumped past them, entirely focused on the crowns.

“Fine, let’s pick out something nice for Smith that is not a crown.” Trott pulled him over to a another display case, away from the crowns. “He’ll like it if we bring him something. Kelpies are notoriously vain.” Ross laughed softly, remembering only at the last moment not to put his hands on the glass fronted case. He clasped them behind his back.

“Presents for everyone,” Ross agreed happily. He scrutinized a line of rings, trying to imagine one on Smith.

“You’re the actual art piece of the family.” Trott considered a ruby the size of a gull’s egg. “You should have something nice, too.”  

“And something for you,” Ross murmured.

Trott thought Ross would have them live in the museum if he could. He probably should never have come up with this idea to steal a crown. Now Ross would want to take everything home with them. Which wouldn’t terrible really, if they had space for it. Trott made a mental note to find a place with a couple bedrooms next time around, the space for everyone to indulge.

* * *

In the museum’s cafe, Ross and Trott shared a chocolate filled croissant. Light poured through the stained glass windows high overhead. Surrounded by tiny tables and potted plants, they sat on the edge of the fountain. Trott squinted skeptically at the fanciful mermaids. They didn’t have nearly enough teeth to be realistic, in his opinion.

“I think you can probably pass unseen in the hall of sculptures,” Trott mused, sipping at his overpriced glass of wine. It was alright, but nothing special enough to warrant the price tag. “You know the habits of the security guards, it shouldn’t be too hard to move around them.”

“What about you?” Ross asked. He dipped his tail in the fountain, touching the tiled mosaic on the bottom. Absentmindedly he scratched back and forth over the tiles.

“Here,” Trott said. He patted the stone beneath them. “I can conceal myself with the water easily enough to avoid sight, and you’ll need to come through here to get to the west hall.”

“The cameras?”

“Easily managed.”

Ross made a skeptical face but shrugged.

“We’ve stolen things before.”

“Yeah, but nothing quite like this.”

Trott offered Ross the last bite of croissant. Ross licked the flakes from his fingers.

“We’re probably going to have to do the selling with some of the fae, this stuff is too distinctive to move otherwise. Should be good money though.” Trott was fairly confident at least one of those rings was magic, and there were always buyers for things like that.

Trott liked this plan. They’d make some good money, get something for their king, come out ahead. It would be easy enough. The shop pulled down some money for them, but not nearly enough for what he wanted to do, or take care of everyone. Smith brought in some cash, and sometimes credit cards they could use, but that was always a bit dodgy. Sips shucked his job when he saw the chance, and as far as Trott knew hadn’t been back since he took up with them. Ross spent most of his time keeping one or another of them company, soaking up words and experiences, participating in the occasional criminal outing for fun and profit. A good solid score would give them some breathing room, a chance to stay a step ahead of the other city fae who were growing increasingly hostile to their presence.

 

 

* * *

  
Ross and Trott entered the museum on a busy afternoon before the holiday weekend. The crowds were full of children with the day off school, ratcheting up the noise. Trott amped up the glamours, making them so inoffensively ordinary that no one would even bother to look at them. They wandered the galleries, and Trott noted every camera on the way. He was also keenly aware of other fae in the crowd. A place like this attracted them for a lot of reasons, and some of them would be surely displeased to find the Garbage Court thieving. This was not really their territory after all. He hadn’t been able to determine if anyone or anything was living in the museum. But they could deal with it, Trott was sure.

The hall of sculptures included some enormous pieces taken from churches, and so the entire far end was built much like a cathedral to hold them. Beautiful stained glass windows rose over the gallery. Ross found himself a perch high up where no one was likely to spot him. He settled comfortably, watching the late crowds still milling about on the floor. The urge to strip off his shoes and clothes filled him, and only the thought of Trott’s annoyance stopped him. Instead he curled into the shadow of sculpted angels, resting his cheek against one cold wing.

Trott slunk through the crowds, quietly watching. He saw a witch who gave him a hard, measuring look before she turned away. A pair of pretty elves, some minor nobles in the sidhe lord’s court, danced around the oblivious crowd in a gallery of paintings. Just before the cafe closed, he ordered a sandwich and sat down at one of the tables nearest the fountain. His skin was folded carefully in the messenger bag at his hip. Trott ate slowly, waiting.

After hours, the museum turned off most of the lights, leaving just enough for the few security guards to make their rounds. The halls were full of deep shadows. It was quite late when Ross finally appeared at the fountain, the dim lights glinting off his horns. The glamour had all but faded away, no longer necessary in the quiet and empty museum.

“What took so long?” Trott hissed, sitting cross legged on the edge of the fountain. His hair was damp.

“Sorry,” Ross muttered, unexpectedly bashful. Trott narrowed his eyes, and chuckled suddenly.

“You forgot what you were supposed to be doing, didn’t you?”

“I was just sort of looking at this statue…” Ross trailed off with a wave of his hand.

“Nevermind.” Trott slung his skin over his shoulders and slipped his feet back into his shoes.

He followed Ross through the halls, skirting through the silent rooms as quietly as possible. They paused a few times, listening and waiting. A bored security guard ambled through the building, his footsteps echoing. They were shadows, unseen as they slipped up the stairs.

Ross waited, listening and watching for the return of the security guard. Behind him, Trott carefully opened the cases in the gloomy half light, snatching up the crown they’d chosen along with a handful of rings, and a few other likely pieces. In their place he left plastic children’s toys, paste gems glamoured to resemble the real thing. The illusion would hold until someone picked them up, and Trott felt reasonably sure they wouldn’t be touched for weeks. By then, it would just be a mystery.

“Trott,” Ross called softly. Hearing the warning in his tone, Trott looked up in time to see something step through the doorway.

“Of course this was going too well,” Trott said under his breath. He shifted the bag on his hip, heavy with their takings. The other fae stared at them with lambent gold eyes. Trott heard the clear snick of claws in the stillness.

“This doesn’t belong to you,” the trow rasped, entering the gallery. Ross stepped forward, moving himself between Trott and the other creature. It wove between the cases, heavy feet scratching at the floor. It was not any taller than Trott, but thick and squat. It carried a wooden club, barely shaped from a branch. Trott could smell the earthy scent of forest magic, something allowing the clumsy monster to pass unseen through the museum.

“It doesn’t really belong here either,” Trott said with a wry smile. “It’s on loan, isn’t it? So it’s not like I’m taking anything that belongs to you.”

“You don’t belong here,” it echoed with a sniff, a vaguely animalistic gesture. “Thieves. Garbage. Betrayers of the true king of the city.”

Trott’s lip curled, a suggestion of a snarl. Beside him, Ross’ tail swept slowly back and forth. The razor edge gleamed.

“Just leaving.” Trott smiled, baring his teeth in a manner not very reassuring.

“No,” the trow replied. “You’re not.”

Ross moved first, leaping over a case to fall on the trow from above. It swung a heavy club, smashing the gargoyle aside. Trott cursed. He wondered how Kirin knew they were here, or if he just had ugly little troll cousins guarding all sorts of places. He dodged, avoiding the swinging club. The trow lumbered forward on short legs, it’s gaze malevolent.

Trott pulled the bag off and dropped it under a shelf, drawing a knife from some hidden pocket. Ross rolled over to his feet, his tail scraping the floor. Half crouched he circled around the trow. It growled and swung the club again, but Ross jumped back this time.

“Fuck off,” he snarled. Ross tried to grab the club away but the trow skittered, swinging in a wide arc. The club clipped Ross, making him grunt. He swung a fist at the trow and Trott heard the dull thump of impact.

Stepping towards the center of the room, Trott glared at the trow. His hand lashed out, a silver flicker. The trow flinched away from the blade. Trott ducked away from its club, the heavy wood whooshing harmlessly through the air. His skin hung heavy and wet over his shoulders but didn’t slow him down. He flicked his knife towards the trow’s face, risking a step closer. Ross distracted it, looming up on the other side. The trow jabbed its weapon at him, and Ross knocked it away with a swipe of his tail. Trott slashed at its other arm, a shallow cut before it spun around.

“Garbage,” the trow hissed again. It stumbled towards him, and Ross was on it from behind, crushing it to the floor. He grabbed the trow’s arm and Trott heard the distinct snap of breaking bones. It keened, a low sound of pain and rage. The hand holding the club went limp, and the weapon tumbled to the floor. Ross snapped its other arm with a vengeful glare.

Trott crouched in front of them and knocked the club away. Ross yanked the trow’s head up, still kneeling on its back, his tail snapping back and forth. He watched the doorway, listening hard for the sounds of anything else approaching. His eyes were bright, burning blue.

“Did he send you here to meet us?” asked Trott casually. The trow spat, and Trott’s slender knife pressed up against one cheek. Up close it smelled of earth and rot. It’s hands fumbled uselessly.

“Because if you’re going to carry a message back,” continued Trott in the same bored voice, “then I’m more inclined to leave you alive.” This was insulting, if someone thought a little monster like this could stop him.

“FIlth, scum, unworthy-” The trow’s tirade changed into a hissing little screech as Trott dug the tip of the blade under its eye. Black blood dripped onto the floor. Ross tightened his grip.

“Why?” Trott snapped.

“You broke the laws of the city.” The trow’s eyes gleamed with spite as it stared at Trott.

“A dead body’s a good message, though.” Trott’s eyes were cold.

“He must die,” the trow babbled. “The balance, the city, the king, you must you must you must-”

Trott jerked his hand back and jammed the knife in deep, pushing through the thick skin into the trow’s throat with a grim expression. It choked and garbled senselessly, and the light went out of its eyes. Trott yanked the knife out, wiping it off on his jeans as the trow died.

“We can’t leave that here.” Ross grimaced. The blood smeared over the floor. He let go of the trow’s body and rose, glad for once of his shoes, if only because it kept his feet out of the spreading pool of blood. Ross found it sticky and unpleasant to touch.

“We’ll dump it in the rose garden outside,” Trott said after a moment. He was glad he’d left Smith with Sips tonight. Things were less safe than he’d hoped. It was strange though, sending something that didn’t have a chance of stopping them. Had they expected someone else? Maybe for one of them to come alone? Why this? Trott wondered. He ground his teeth, wanting answers for too many questions.

“What did it mean, Trott?”

“Nothing goes unnoticed, sunshine.” Trott sighed. “You alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” Ross stretched and patted his ribs. They ached but that would fade soon enough. Trott reached out to him, running his fingers down Ross’ side to feel for cracks.

“I’m fine, Trott.” Ross lifted his shirt, exposing the unmarred expanse of his torso.

“Should we be worried?” asked Ross. He picked up the corpse easily.

“We’re alright. Let’s just get home, shall we?” With a relieved sigh, Trott tucked the knife away and snatched his bag. 

* * *

The bedroom window was wide open on the late evening, and the city sounds drifted in along with the smells, and the lingering chill of spring. Trott’s messenger bag sat on top of the dresser, and Smith rifled through it, curious about what Trott brought home. He hadn’t minded staying behind with Sips, enjoying having him entirely to himself for hours. They drank and Sips let him climb practically in his lap while they watched some dumb movie about race car drivers.

Ross sat on the window sill, one leg dangling outside. Smith moved nearer, and looked out with him. The street was quiet, even the last of the drunks gone. The street light changed to red and nothing moved. Behind them, Trott and Sips slept in a tangle on Sips’ narrow bed. The only light came from the window, leaving everything patterned in heavy grey shadows and bands of faded light.

“What’re you watching for?” asked Smith, his voice low. He felt Ross’ tail slide around him, pulling him closer.

“There was something in the museum, waiting for us.”

Smith frowned, one hand resting on Ross’ shoulder, waiting for the rest of the story.

“It’s probably nothing,” Ross continued. “But I don’t like thinking something is looking for us.”

“What happened?”

“It’s dead.”

Smith hummed under his breath. Some options were less worse than others, but in general it was always bad news if something tried to kill you. He touched Ross’ hair, ruffling it into little spikes. They were quiet together for a little while, Smith’s hand on Ross’ head.

“I got you something,” Ross whispered, reaching into a pocket of the jeans he still wore.

“What?”

Ross’ fingers were cool on his skin, circling his wrist and pulling it into Ross’ lap. In the yellowed glow of the sodium vapour lamps, the delicate art deco bracelet glittered and sparkled. Gently Ross fastened the clasp, and held Smith’s hand in both of his. It sat just above his wrist bone, the rounded emeralds in their diamond plaques drinking up the light. More diamonds adorned the platinum links holding them together.

“You can’t see how green the emeralds are right now,” Ross mused. “But they made me think of you.” Smith turned his wrist and the links shifted, the shape of them reminding him for a moment of something he’d worn before. The memory slipped away, just a faded snatch of sunlight and half tones, the ringing sound of bells, the bit in his mouth.

“Did it now?” he whispered. “Thank you.” He kissed Ross’ forehead, one sharp horn pressing into his cheek.

“Trott said there’s magic in it, to keep you safe. For emergencies.” Ross’ face was inscrutable. His fingers traced the line of bone under Smith’s skin.

Smith swallowed, an unexpected feeling pricking him. He could feel it, the lingering swirl of Trott’s touch on the stones. If he concentrated, he could touch the edges. Coiled and waiting, the magic was buried beneath the shine. Worth more than all the stones and metal in the bracelet, it was a hell of a gift.

“Sweet,” Smith managed finally in a steady voice. Ross murmured something, the words lost as he nuzzled into Smith’s shoulder before turning back to watch the street. They stayed there for a long time, Smith’s arms around Ross, keeping silent vigil. Towards dawn, Smith started to yawn.

“Up,” he whispered to Ross with sleepy impatience. He shuffled to the futon mattress beside the bed, peeling off his shirt and jeans. Sips’ bed was too small to sleep all of them at once, not without someone being squished. Ross wouldn’t mind, but he didn’t want to wake the others up and it was usually more comfortable for everyone if he was on the bottom of the pile. He tugged the window shut, and pulled down the blinds. Smith flopped to the mattress, dragging the pillows to him.

He was warm against Ross’ chest, already half asleep when he curled against Smith’s back. Ross pressed a chaste kiss to his neck. Smith reached back for his hand, and Ross’ fingers brushed over the bracelet. Twining their fingers together, Smith pulled Ross’ arm around to his chest and kissed his knuckles before drifting into sleep. Sunlight gradually brightened the room, and Ross listened to Smith’s steady breathing for another hour before he closed his eyes.

 

* * *

They gathered around the sofa, and around their king. Ross rested his elbows on Smith’s knees, his eyes on the brightly colored box. From somewhere, Trott had scavenged up some leftover wrapping paper with red and gold swirls. It sat in Sips’ lap and he regarded it slightly dubiously, as if it might just be an elaborate joke.

“You can’t keep wearing paper burger crowns,” Smith said, half challenging as if he expected Sips to put up a fight about it.

“I didn’t pick those out,” Sips said complacently. Smith flushed, opening his mouth to argue.

“So we found you something nicer,” Ross interrupted, eager to get on with it. He hugged Smith’s legs, distracting him from bickering with Sips.

“Something more fitting for a king,” Trott clarified. Smith brushed his hand through Ross’ hair, scratching just behind his horns. They shared a glance, and Ross rubbed his hand in soothing circles on Smith’s knee.

“You guys, you didn’t have to do that,” Sips said, amused and slightly apprehensive. He ripped at the wrapping paper and into the plain cardboard box. His eyes widened, and Sips carefully smoothed away his momentary shock.

“Shit,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. He picked up the crown very gently, as if it might shatter. The diamonds glittered, hundred of sharp points of light. Ross smiled, leaning into the sofa.

“Is this real?” asked Sips. “This can’t be real.” Only Trott saw the tremble, the brief second where he nearly dropped it.

“Of course it’s real,” Trott said, sounding very amused by the question. Even if it was a reasonable one, given the circumstances.

“Holy shit.” Sips laughed, staring at the enormous yellow diamond. “ _Holy shit._ Where did you - nope, I _definitely_ don’t want to know where you got this.”

“You need something more permanent.” Trott tapped the crown with one finger. “Something with some gravitas.” He swept the wrapping paper out of Sips’ lap.

Sips opened his mouth, and closed it without a word. Instead he laughed again. He held the crown in his lap, turning it round and round. Ross put his chin on his arms, eyes following the yellow diamond.

“Guys, I can’t wear this,” Sips said finally. He let it rest on his knee, the giant yellow diamond winking up at him. He looked almost regretful.

“Why not?” challenged Smith, affronted and frowning.

“It’s a little obvious isn’t it?” Sips looked at him. “I mean, I’d probably get mugged walking down the street. Or someone might connect the dots on where this came from, and that is a world of trouble.”

“But you need a crown.” Smith frowned. “Tell him, Trott. He has to have a crown.”

“Maybe we could glamour it?” Ross suggested, looking at the crown. He reached over to touch it.

“What is the point of having a real crown if we glamour it?” grumbled Smith.

“Jeez, this is heavy. Are you sure this is for wearing?” Sips laughed. He rubbed a thumb over a spray of diamonds worked into the wheat stalk. “Fuck, do you have any idea how much this is worth? This is a lot of fucking money to put on my head.” Taking off the frayed baseball cap he often wore, Sips scrubbed a hand through his short, black hair. He looked apprehensively at the crown, as if he needed to psych himself up to put it on.

“If you wear it, no one will notice the receding hairline,” snarked Smith.

“Fuck off, Smiffy,” Sips growled. They glared at each other, and the crown was forgotten for a moment. Ross rolled his eyes, waving his tail impatiently.

Taking the crown carefully from Sips’ hands, Trott settled it on his head before he could protest. His eyes met Trott’s for a moment, startled and dark, before Sips let his lips quirk into a half smile. The golden wheat stalks dug into his skin of his forehead.

“Wear it some, see what you think,” urged Trott. It was strange, to see that little frisson of nerves in Sips. Nothing fazed him, but this did. Interesting, Trott thought. Trott cocked his head to one side, thinking it made Sips look much more like someone who belonged in a fairy tale. Ross was right. All that gold suited him.

“It’s really nice, guys, thanks.” Sips touched the crown, moving slowly as if it might slide off at any moment. He leaned back on the sofa. “The king needs a beer though, if he’s going to keep wearing this, because fuck this is heavy.”

“I’ll get it,” Trott offered, sliding off the sofa. He found a couple of bottles in the mostly empty fridge. He should send Ross out for groceries. When he returned, Ross was leaning his head against Sips’ knee and flipping channels. Smith slouched into Sips’ side while they argued about what to watch. Every now and then Sips reached up and touched the crown, as if to check that it was still there. Trott watched them, pleased.

 

* * *

Keeping the crown on Sips was another matter entirely.

Ross found it amusing, to see where Sips would “forget” his crown every day. It was a small apartment, and there weren’t that many places to lose things even in their general state of chaos. Trott was busy offloading most of the museum pieces, stashing away the funds for some place better.

Strangely enough, Smith took the crown more seriously than anyone else.

“You can’t fucking leave that thing in the fridge, Sips.” Smith forced his words out from between gritted teeth. Sips gave him an unconcerned smile from where he was buttering his toast. He had on the rather plush robe Smith filched from a hotel over the holidays, and a pair of bright blue boxers.

“I think you’ll find that the king can leave his crown anywhere he likes,” he declared emphatically, waving the butter knife. Sips pointed it at Smith, who approached with the crown in his hands. “Fuck no, don’t put that on my head. It’s freezing!”

“Because you put it in-”

“Hand it over.” Ross lifted the crown out of Smith’s hands, ignoring the exasperated sound he made. “It will be warm enough after breakfast, leave off.”

“Put it somewhere safe while I eat, will you?” Sips winked at Ross. The air smelled of toast just a breath away from burning. Sips smacked the side of the toaster, trying to get it out before it caught fire like last time.

“Fucking goddamn it…” Smith turned away, and jerked the fridge open again. Sitting on the counter beside the stove, Trott muttered something into his coffee about ungrateful kings getting their comeuppance. Ross shrugged, and set the crown carefully on Sips’ ancient, boxy television. Less likely it would get smears of butter or anything else they’d need to clean off there.

 

* * *

Sips often flat out refused to wear it, especially if they were going somewhere. His reluctance was often couched in protests about attracting the wrong sort of attention. The only exception he made was for the Garbage Court revel, or anything they dragged him to that involved the other fae of the city.  

“I suppose everyone will be dressed up freaky anyways,” Sips muttered. He shrugged into his one suit, a dusty black thing only dragged out for funerals. It was several years old, off the rack of some thrift shop, but it fit him well enough.

“Freaky?” laughed Smith. “You sound like an old man now.” He combed his hair back with his fingers, jostling for space at the mirror beside Sips. Not that there was much to his jeans and t-shirt that needed adjustment. He just wanted to look at the two of them side by side, just about the same height.

“I am an old man,” Sips retorted. “Older than you anyways.” He shouldered Smith aside and his unfastened the top couple buttons of his dress shirt, tossing away the tie.

Trott laughed softly, sidestepping them to pull his plain dress shirt off a hanger and slip it on. The subject of Smith’s actual age hadn’t actually come up yet. One day they’d have that conversation, and he’d laugh for days.  

“You’re both old men,” Smith snorted, looking sideways at Trott.

“I think that makes you the rent boy then.” Sips slid a hand into the back pocket of Smith’s jeans, giving his ass a hard squeeze.

“Oh fuck off.” Smith let Sips push him against the sink, his snarl tinged with that breathless delight he took in provoking Sips.

Trott ignored them, carefully tying a tight trinity knot in his tie. His suit was newer, a lighter charcoal color and had never been to a funeral. Ross watched him from where he leaned against the door, thinking that Trott looked nearly as human as Sips sometimes. He looked down at his own hands. If he concentrated, his fingers lengthened and the nails turned into claws. But mostly, they looked like human hands. Trott said it was just part of his magic, blending him into his environment. That he shouldn’t worry. Ross supposed they were all trying to blend in somehow.

Trott caught him staring and raised an eyebrow in the mirror.

“Need something to wear to the ball, sunshine?”

“No,” Ross answered, frowning. “Smith’s not dressing up. I’m not either.” Ross glanced at Smith, pushed up against the mirror. Sips whispered something in his ear, and Smith laughed. His fingers were spread wide, leaving smudges on the glass. Sips ground his hips against Smith.

Trott turned around and reached out to cup Ross’ face in his hands, distracting him.

“Going in your all natural glory then?” he teased, ghosting his lips over Ross’ forehead and kissing each horn. Ross whined quietly, leaning forward so Trott would kiss him on the mouth.

“Why not?” Ross asked, his lips moving against Trott’s.

“Why not,” Trott agreed. “In fact, there’s only one thing you should wear.” Reluctantly, Trott released him and opened the cabinet under the sink. Rummaging through the fire safe box, he considered the last few pieces of jewelry he hadn’t yet sold. The giant ruby ring wasn’t magical at all, but he didn’t care. He slipped it onto his left hand while he picked through the small hoard. Always good to have something shiny on hand if you needed to make a trade.

“Trott, what are you doing?” asked Sips. He pulled Trott to his feet. “You’re blocking the door.”

“I thought you were busy fucking Smith on the sink.” Trott kicked the cabinet closed, his fist full of jewelry.

“Don’t want to make a mess of my only good suit,” Sips deadpanned, straightening his jacket.

* * *

 

The crown practically glowed in the neon lights, all the diamonds full of fire and making Sips appear stranger than usual. He sat on the divan with Trott, up in the club’s tiny balcony level. It was a good spot all around. Smith had stumbled across a nightclub recently closed for all sorts of code violations, the perfect place for a quick and dirty Garbage Court party. Word circulated in the usual way, cryptic messages in social media, rumors among friends and strangers smoking outside bars. From the street it looked dark and abandoned. But inside, it was all light and noise and chaos.

Trott’s hand rested lightly on the back of Ross’ neck. He played with the clasp of the necklace, rubbing it between his fingers from time to time. A delicate chain linked a half dozen rectangular sapphires with dozens of smaller diamonds. They gleamed against Ross’ skin, deep and dark blue. Otherwise, Ross was as gloriously naked as he’d been for the past few centuries. He sat on his heels, kneeling beside Trott and watching the crowd downstairs. Humans and fae danced together, bodies constantly in motion under the flickering lights. It was cold tonight without any heat running into the building, and Ross suspected half the reason everyone danced so much was to stay warm. Certainly pressed into the crowd on the floor had to be warmer than anywhere else.

Smith leaned over the railing, looking down at the booth where his two favorite DJs worked the decks. Yolandi must have felt his stare, looking up and flashing a sweet, fearsome smile. Her platinum blonde hair glowed under the black light. Her partner was hunched over the board, swaying back and forth. It was the first big revel since midwinter, and Smith was pleased with how well it was coming together. He peeled off his jacket, and went to toss it on the divan with Trott and Sips.

“Where ya going?” Sips asked, catching his wrist. The bracelet dug into Smith’s arm under his firm grip.

“Dancing.” Smith grinned. His eyes were bright, predatory.

“Aww, Smiffy.” Sips tugged him to sit on the arm of the little divan. “Don’t run off yet. You haven’t even gotten me a drink.”

Smith wrinkled his nose.  “There’s plenty of people for you to order around here-”

He was halfway to gesturing at the humans and fae sitting at the tall tables against the wall when Sips pulled him down by his t-shirt.

“Do you have any quarters?”

“What?” Smith cocked his head, confused.

“Pinball, Smiffy,” drawled Sips. “There’s a pinball machine up here, so I need quarters.”

Smith snorted, and followed Sips back to the pinball machine in the corner. He cadged some change from one of the people crowded at a tiny table while Sips flicked on the machine. The lights blinked rapidly, and he leaned forward with a look of serious concentration. Smith crossed his arms and sighed, resigned to being Sips’ audience for the time being.

Ross watched from the corner of his eye, face impassive. Trott stared openly, amusement in his eyes. The arrival of several folk at the top of the stairs pulled his attention away. His fingers tensed on Ross’ neck, then relaxed. He recognized some members of the Garbage Court’s odd assortment of city fae, come to pay their respects. The bouncer at the top of the stairs let them pass with a nod.

“ _Jeez_ , would you look at that,” Sips said to no one in particular. He watched the minotaur with interest, not bothering to hide his stare. His crown glittered in the lights from the machine, and Smith fed a couple more quarters into the slot, triggering a burst of music. Sips turned back to his game, already losing interest in everything else. Smith rolled his eyes and pushed away from the wall. He sauntered past the pixies, and down the stairs towards the dance floor.

Trott swallowed a laugh. Many of the other fae didn’t bother with glamours or only partially concealed their features at these parties. Nathan was one who often didn’t bother. He was a rather tall creature, even without the curving horns. They had a fine ivory shine against the russet fur of his head. He was casually rumpled in a dark suit that looked far more expensive than anyone else’s tonight. Trott had seen his idea of a glamour, one that left him a rather ugly man. It seemed to amuse him and didn’t cause any problems with his business though.

Nathan jerked his head at the pixies trailing in his wake, scattering them. They fluttered, taking up spots along the balcony rail to watch the dance floor. One of them darted back down the stairs, her silver tights sparkling with tiny rhinestones. They looked like a pack of sorority girls in their short, brightly colored dresses and glitter, with heavy glamours to make them look human and nonthreatening. Perfect dealers really, Trott thought. Anyone who wanted to roll one of those girls for her drugs would have an unpleasant surprise.

“I heard something recently that you might want to hear.” Nathan planted his feet directly in front of Trott, arms folded. Trott recognized the impatient set of his shoulders, and wondered what riled him enough to come in person.

“What’s that?” Trott gestured at a nearby chair, and Nathan pulled it over to the other side of Ross. It struck him that Nathan was probably an exile as well. Trott had never seen another minotaur besides Nathan in all the years he’d been on dry land.

“Lot of fancy types come through the Domain,” Nathan said conversationally. His success with the white table cloth steak house had turned into a few restaurants, and made Nathan a not inconsiderable sum. The restaurants were well regarded in the city for their food, as well as serving up less legal, and sometimes less human fare. Many of the city’s fae used Nathan’s restaurants as gathering places. Trott supposed it was some private joke that he spent most of his time in the steakhouse. Maybe he just enjoyed how it made some people uncomfortable.

“That place is for people with delusions of grandeur,” Trott said. He waved his free hand at the club. “The mark up on your wine is obscene, you know.”

Nathan politely ignored the jab about the wine.

“There’s a few of those customers slumming it here tonight,” he commented instead.

“I know.” Trott curled his fingers into Ross’ hair, tugging. Ross didn’t move, didn’t blink. Trott forced his fingers to relax again. “So what’s the story?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a story, except I kept hearing your name come up.”

“Really.”

“Lot of talk about folk not respecting tradition.”

Trott laughed heartily, and the minotaur offered him a sardonic smile.

“Gets better though,” he continued. “Seems like there’s fuss about rituals gone undone, magic not where it should be. Got some folk pretty mad, bucking tradition like that.” His gaze drifted to Sips. Trott kept his expression pleasant, though he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“How many of them are here tonight?” he asked.

“Only a few,” the minotaur said dismissively. He slouched more comfortably, one arm over the back of his chair. “Not anyone who’s going to do something about it tonight, probably. But they are talking, and someone is going to do something sooner or later.”

Trott nodded, something grim in the lines of his face now. He looked at Sips, engrossed in his pinball game. The score ticked higher and higher on the machine, little LED explosions flashing over the numbers. One of the witches was seated unobtrusively near him, part of Ross’ ever growing collection of security. He found them, unlikely fighters and steady bouncers he could count on to keep watchful eyes on humans and fae alike. They worked off debts on these nights. The risk of danger was part of the draw for these parties, but Trott didn’t skimp on keeping them protected.

“I heard that someone is making a play for the city.”

Trott looked back at him, and raised an eyebrow. They stared at each other in silence. Nathan finally looked away.

“I hope he’s worth it,” he said, in a voice that indicated he clearly didn’t think so.

“We’re very fond of our king,” Trott said. One of the pixies, with bright green hair, brought them drinks. Trott clinked his glass with Nathan’s and sipped, the alcohol burning in the back of his throat.

“How’s business?” asked Trott, swirling the ice in his glass. “I know you’re not here just to tell me fairy tales.”

“Business is always slow after the holidays,” Nathan replied. He petted the pixie and let her settle on his leg. She kept her knees together, the silver miniskirt riding high up her legs. “Got some new things coming up though. Thinking about opening a diner sort of place, maybe all night. Classier bacon and eggs, all that free range organic business.”

“Interesting.” Trott balanced his glass on Ross’ shoulder for a moment just to see if he could do it. “People get hungry, staying out all night.”

“That’s what I thought.” Nathan shifted, one arm around the pixie. She looked even smaller next to his bulk. She and Ross stared at each other silently. He wondered how much she liked her place, what she was doing. Her eyes were very large, and very dark, a deep brown.

“We’re always looking for ways to invest in the community.” Trott let his eyes drift to Sips for a minute. He was chatting animatedly with the witch girl, leaning on the pinball machine. Sips gestured with both hands and the witch laughed. Sips pushed the crown back on his head, the gesture one he made all the time with his ordinary cap. “You have to get the real maple syrup though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Nathan barked a laugh, and clinked glasses with Trott to cement the deal.

“Ross,” Trott said softly, when Nathan walked away with his pixie. Ross turned his head just enough to meet Trott’s eyes. “Go find Smith, finish whatever he’s doing, and bring him back up here.” He settled back as Ross stood up. His tail brushed over Trott’s legs.

Trott drank the melted ice left in his glass, and watched Ross walk away with his unhurried grace. His head ached a little, the music pounding at his temples. He let his gaze roam over the fae in the crowd. There were a lot of them tonight, indulging themselves in the heady atmosphere. Sips was still playing pinball, and Trott went to join the small audience gathered around him.

 

* * *

In the crush of the downstairs crowd, Ross looked for Smith. He ignored the hungry glances of both fae and human dancers as he pushed past them. Hands and bodies brushed against him, and Ross barely felt them. He was focused on the sense he had of Smith, trying to spot him in the shifting lights. The music rattled through him, almost too loud.

Smith was in the middle of the dance floor, his hands on the hips of a pretty girl in black. Her bare shoulders were covered in tattoos and her long hair shimmered a greenish blue. All around them, the colored lights lit up the smoky air.

“Trott said hurry up,” Ross half shouted in Smith’s ear over the crescendo of the music. The girl swayed between them, watching.

“It’s so early!” Smith shouted back. Ross gave him a little head shake, as if to say he didn’t know why.

“Don’t you want to dance with us?” the girl asked suddenly. She put one hand on Ross’ chest, apparently unconcerned by his nudity or his strangeness. The bright silver contacts she wore made it impossible to tell if she was intoxicated with alcohol or Smith’s particular charm.

“He likes to watch,” Smith laughed, grinning at Ross. He dragged them both to what used to be the club’s green room, behind the DJ booth. Crammed with a couple couches of dubious origins, there were also some little tables and a row of mirrors on one wall. The overwhelming sound was muffled now. Smith pushed Ross down on the nearest couch, a reddish velour covered monstrosity. It creaked alarmingly but held his weight. Smith settled beside him, throwing one leg over Ross’, and smiling his most disarming smile.

“Come here.” Smith leaned into Ross. “Best seat in the house tonight.” Ross laughed quietly, and put an arm around Smith’s shoulders. The girl stared at them, and Ross wondered what she was thinking, what her name might be, what strange little details of her life they would never know. He tried not to twitch his tail too obviously. In the dim yellow light, her hair shimmered with glitter and appeared mostly green. Her tattoos were delicate patterns of flowers, almost like watercolors spilling down her shoulders and onto her arms. She swayed forward on her high heeled boots, the short skirt fluttering around her thighs. Smith beckoned her forward, and Ross felt the pull of his magic filling the room.

Ross let his head fall back against the cushion, watching them kiss. Smith’s hands caressed her, settling her in his lap. When her hair fell forward, Ross brushed it back so he could continue watching them. She tilted her head into his hand. Smith began kissing her throat. Ross tangled his fingers in her hair, twining it around his fingers. She made pleased sounds as Smith kiss the tops of her breasts. At the same time, he slid a hand under her skirt to work her underwear down her legs.

Ross shifted sideways and leaned his head on his arm. In the mirrors, he could see Smith’s hand playing with the dangling laces of her corset top. There was something so genuinely pleasurable about watching Smith. It was the way he seduced people, the ease to all his gestures. Ross stared at their reflections moving beside him as Smith fingered the girl. In the mirror her eyes were closed, and her lips parted. She rocked on Smith’s hand, and breathlessly encouraged him. Ross watched the pleasure suffuse her face.

Smith pushed her over into Ross, and she made a little surprised noise. Her eyes opened, unfocused and startled. Ross held her gently, one arm around her waist. Her head fell back against his shoulder. She wriggled a little, her buttocks pressing down into his lap. Ross ignored the faint, mechanical stirring of arousal. Smith’s pulled her underwear off and stroked his hands back up her pale legs, spreading them open across Ross’ lap.

“Comfy?” Smith murmured, kissing her again. She reached forward, a hand tugging on the zipper of his jeans. Smith planted his knees on the edge of the sofa beside Ross’ and bent over them. He kissed her first, biting at her lip, and then he leaned further to kiss Ross briefly as well. His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her up a little as he balanced himself to thrust into her. She gasped, a high, breathy sound that melted into a steady stream of moans and pleas for more. Ross watched Smith, the real Smith and his reflection, both carefully propped up on the edge of the couch. His hips pushed the girl down into Ross. She rolled her head to the side, panting and whimpering. Smith and Ross stared at each other as Smith fucked her. Ross wrapped a careful hand around her throat. The bass of the club’s sound system thudded dully along with them, and Smith’s magic thickened the air.

Smith’s hand joined Ross’ on her throat. Their eyes locked and Ross felt the change in the atmosphere. The lights dimmed and Ross could smell the river. Water beaded on the back of his hand, and dripped in rivulets down the cushions. Smith’s hips snapped forward, driving them all down into the now soaked couch. Their hands tightened on her neck, slowly cutting off her breath. Ross shifted his head, avoiding the girl’s thrashing. Her hands clawed ineffectually at them as she started to fight too late. Smith came with a groan, head thrown back. His hand tightened over Ross’, crushing any chance for breath. Smith bent down and put his mouth to the pulse under her jaw, his teeth sharp and white as they ripped into her. Blood soaked over their hands, running into the water puddling all around them. Her last scream was barely a sound.

“Get your dinner off me,” Ross finally said, pushing at Smith and the girl’s body. He left Smith to finish eating while he cleaned himself off as best he could in the tiny bathroom. The water ran red to pink as he sluiced off the blood in the sink before it got dry and sticky. Ross was not a fan of sticky anything. The diamonds and sapphires around his neck glimmered in the weak light from the broken fixture. Ross sighed and looked around the empty bathroom in hopes of magically finding a towel. Water dripped, and puddled on the dirty floor.

In the mirror, Smith watched him. Blood stained his t-shirt, messy blotches down the front. His jeans were wet.

“You’ve ruined that,” Ross said mildly. Smith looked down at himself and grimaced. He peeled the t-shirt off and balled it up, tossing it away. Stepping closer, Smith stroked a hand down Ross’ stomach with his chin hooked over Ross’ shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” Smith whispered, watching their reflection. Ross smiled at him, reaching up to run his fingers through his tousled hair. He wiped one finger over Smith’s chin, a smear of blood staining his stubble.

“I like that you look at me so much,” Ross whispered back, meeting Smith’s eyes in the mirror.

Smith pulled Ross around, his kiss tasting of whiskey and blood. Smith’s hands skimmed over Ross’ hips, down to his cock. Ross held on to the edge of the sink as Smith sank to his knees. His tail wrapped around Smith, holding him close. He moaned as Smith took him into his mouth, the warmth a pleasant contrast to the chill in the air. Smith stroked his tongue against the ridges of Ross’ cock. Cracks formed in the porcelain of the sink as Ross gripped it harder than necessary.

Getting Ross off like this was so easy. It was quick, Smith’s hand wrapped around the base of his cock. He looked up at Ross, watching his expressions change with every rise and dip of Smith’s head. Ross bit his lip, moaning. When Ross came, the magic made Smith’s mouth tingle and burn. Rising, Smith let Ross fold him in his arms, and they swayed there for a moment.

Ross kissed him lazily. He knew they should go back upstairs, rejoin the others. But he wanted to stay here, Smith warm and sated against him. Ross closed his eyes, told himself five more minutes before he kissed the curve of Smith’s jaw below his ear.

 

* * *

Smith pulled the door shut behind them, casually snapping the door knob so it couldn’t be opened without someone knocking down the door. He said something in Yolandi’s ear as they passed through the DJ booth. She was so small, Smith had to bend well down to put his head beside hers.

“Hartek!” Yolandi gestured to the huge man sitting in the back of the booth, and he leaned himself against the door, solidly blocking it from anyone who might come through. He looked absurdly sinister, nearly as tall as Smith and twice as wide. He also wore a grotesque mask, shiny black with exaggerated features.

“Good night, yeah?” Yolandi shouted. “Fun stuff.” She looked from Smith’s bare chest to Ross, and raised her eyebrows.

“Hell yeah,” Smith answered with his practiced grin. He high-fived her, slipping her a wad of cash for the night’s work. She laughed, bouncing in her shiny silver sneakers to the beat of the music.The crowd heaved under the spell of the music, a ripple of hands raised in the air and swaying arms. **  
**

“That took you long enough,” Trott said when they made it back upstairs. He stood with one arm casually around Sips’ waist, watching the dance floor.

“Lose your shirt, Smiffy?” Sips raised his eyebrows at them over his drink. Smith and Ross shrugged at almost the same moment, and Trott laughed.

“Had to pay the DJs,” Smith said, ignoring the question. He snagged his jacket off the divan, slipping it back on.

“What, did you give her a lap dance?” Sips chortled.

“No, I did not give her a lap dance!” Smith glared.

“Ross, did _you_ give her a lap dance?” asked Sips, turning to him.

“No,” Ross said in a grave voice. “Should I go back down and do that?”

Sips laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes as he leaned on Trott. Smith threw his hands in the air, and went to go find himself a drink. Ross’ tail twitched with amusement.

* * *

A week later, Trott stopped in the center of the living room to kick a box out of his path. He glanced down at Ross, sitting in front of the sofa.

“Ross, you need new shoes,” Trott groaned. “You can’t keep taking them off and leaving them places.” He pointed accusingly at Ross’ bare feet.

“How many fine art statues do you see wearing shoes, Trott?” Ross looked up from where he was brushing the tangles out of Smith’s hair while he napped. Trott wondered idly where they’d gone last night to come home so dirty, and Smith’s hair all snarled full of leaves.

“Also, I’m sick of seeing you in the same two shirts. Time for new shirts.”

“I’m not wearing a shirt right now.” Ross frowned.

“All the more reason,” Trott countered. “Fuck it, let’s go to the mall.” Trott nudged Smith, who grumbled and rolled over in his spot on the floor. He pressed his face into Ross’ naked thigh, stubbornly ignoring Trott. Ross continued brushing his hair, one hand resting at the nape of Smith’s neck.

“The one over off Riverside?” Sips glanced over from his place sprawled in his recliner. “I could go for a giant cinnamon bun thing.”

“Nah mate, we’re banned from there.”

“How do you get banned from the mall?” Sips raised an eyebrow.

“Public indecency, swimming in the fountain, shoplifting, arson, fighting-” Trott ticked their offenses off on his fingers. “We’ll have to go to that one way out in Cedar Grove.”

“Do they have a Cinnabon?” Sips asked.

“No, but they do have that pretzel place.” Smith finally raised his head from Ross’ lap, sleepy and licking his lips. He nuzzled Ross affectionately and dragged himself to a sitting position. His feet were bare, just as dirty as Ross’ were.

“We could just go to get pretzels, not clothes,” Ross suggested hopefully.

“Shoes,” Trott said firmly. “No pretzels until you have shoes. Get dressed.”

“If I was meant to wear clothes, they would have carved clothes.” Ross’ muttering continued, a well worn argument they’d stopped even acknowledging. Smith patted him, ignoring his complaints about the various indignities inherent in making him wear clothing like everyone else. Trott shuffled through a stack of credit cards on the counter, picking a couple that seemed likely to work. On the floor, Smith stretched his arms over his head with a yawn.

“Come on, I want lunch,” Sips said as he climbed out of the chair. Trott smiled to himself as Sips chivied the others into getting up and getting dressed. He never raised his voice or even made a real demand, just the subtle, persistent pestering. It continued to impress Trott. He would think Sips entirely unconscious of his effect if Trott didn’t sometimes catch a sly, fleeting smile on his face.

 

* * *

Shoes turned out to be the easy part. Trott found Ross a pair of plain boots that seemed like they would hold up to a lot of scuffling around in alleys and climbing things. But convincing Ross to find himself some shirts took more persuasion.

“Here,” Smith demanded, pulling them into a store on the ground floor that was much like any of the other clothing stores in the mall. The same mannequins posed in awkward, frozen tableaus, the same music, the same colors as everything else. It didn’t seem to matter which store the clothes came from, as everything was pretty much the same regardless of the name over the door.

“Look, you don’t care about the clothes,” Smith continued. “So let someone else pick them.” Ross rolled his eyes and followed, glaring at the enormous posters of models along the walls.

“I don’t know if I should be trusting you for that,” Ross grumbled. He glanced around the store, at the carefully angled track lights, and walls full of carefully folded jeans. It was very neat, and strangely subdued despite the loud pop music. Only a couple clerks wandered around, and a handful of other shoppers.

“This looks more like Trott’s style,” mused Sips, picking up a shirt.

“True,” agreed Trott. He flipped through a rack of button down shirts in various colors, all shades of blue. He really could use some new shirts.

“Trott doesn’t have style,” Smith snorted. “Put this on.” He handed Ross a pale grey t-shirt.

“Why?” Ross fingered the soft cotton. It did feel nice, he’d admit to that.

“For my entertainment,” Smith said in an already exasperated tone. “Just do it already.” He tugged Ross’ faded black tshirt over his head. Nearby a sales clerk opened his mouth as if to say something about dressing rooms, and proper in store behavior. But the sight of Ross, glamoured just enough to hide the horns and the tail, gave him pause. He was very pale in the store’s carefully chosen lighting. Trott watched the clerk struggle with his desire to stare as Smith tugged the grey shirt over Ross’ head. The clerk looked almost sad to see him covered up again.

“Nah, get him one with some color.” Sips rifled through the stack of t-shirts, pulling one that was a bright red. Smith wrinkled his nose and picked up a navy blue instead. They started arguing immediately.

“I could just buy a black t-shirt, like the one I’ve got,” Ross offered wearily, his words not registering in the debate. He let Smith and Sips pull shirts over his head though, debating the colors with an intensity usually reserved for arguments about pizza toppings, movie nights and who was getting up to get the next beer. Ross’ tail twitched irritably, and he stared off into space until Trott appeared at his elbow.

“Here you go, sunshine.” The t-shirt was a dark blue, patterned with arches, rose windows and cathedral shapes. It was very subtle, the pattern fine and barely lighter than the rest of the shirt. Ross snorted, genuinely amused.

“Two shirts,” Ross said firmly, handing the red one and the patterned shirt back to Trott. Trott laughed, and carried the shirts up to the register. The clerk stopped folding jeans and followed them.

“He is something to look at, isn’t he?” Trott said in a low voice as he paid with one of Smith’s many credit cards. The clerk startled, and eyes flicked over Trott’s shoulder. Behind him, a shirtless Ross leaned into Smith, still muttering under his breath about the indignity of wearing clothes.

“Smith, put his shirt back on,” Trott demanded. He signed the receipt with a messy scrawl and a little doodle of a seal.

“Trott,” sighed Ross. “Really?”

“I don’t feel like arguing with mall cops about what constitutes art,” Trott said, pushing the receipt across the counter. He winked at the clerk, deeply amused by the entire situation. “Put your shirt on, sunshine, and I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

Looking back, Trott checked to see that Ross was still carrying his bags. Ross and Smith trailed behind them, discussing ways to abuse store mannequins.

“No crown today?” Trott asked as they wandered towards the food court.

“Am I supposed to wear it?” Sips cut his eyes sideways at Trott.

“It would help.”

“It’s beautiful, Trott, but that thing is a bit much for every day.”

“Hard to believe there’s anything too gaudy for you.” Trott chuckled.

“More like I don’t want to get stabbed for it.” Sips’ gaze flitted past the stores for candles, religious books, and stuffed animals. “How come this place doesn’t have a goddamn arcade?”

“Fine,” Trott shrugged. “But we do need to find something.”

“That one of the rules?”

“I don’t make them,” Trott laughed, a bit grimly.

Sips pointed at the kiosk in the middle of the mall floor. The sign blazed “Custom Embroidery!” A lanky teenage girl was reading a book, perched on the stool. The shelves were full of blank merchandise in a rainbow of colors.

“That,” he said to Trott, “is the solution to your problem.”

“What is?”

“You can buy me a hat.” Sips slapped him on the back. When Trott stared at him dubiously, Sips grinned even wider.

“A hat they’ll embroider anything on, like say, a fucking crown.” He touched the brim of the faded cap he wore now, the logo for a long defunct local sports team on the back.

Trott groaned, resigned to Sips’ terrible taste in all things. “Fine, let’s get you a fucking hat.”

At least he would wear it, Trott thought. Cheerfully, Sips considered the rows of identical hats, finally choosing a black one. The girl in the kiosk seemed slightly startled by their appearance and slid off her stool reluctantly.

“What do you want on it?” she mumbled, pushing a binder towards them. He flipped through it with Sips, watching the girl sideways. She kept her face turned towards the counter, staring down. Dirty blonde hair hung past her shoulders, and her wrists were covered in bracelets. Her nails were covered in chipped polish, fluttering restlessly at the lip of the counter.

“Look, here we go!” Gleefully Sips pointed out the simple crown design. “That one, right on the front.”

“Whatever you say.” Trott paid for the hat with a grim smile. The girl working the stand unenthusiastically ran his card, and handed him a receipt without making eye contact. He signed the slip, and stared at her. She flicked a nervous glance at him as she picked up the hat. Trott smiled, just a hint of teeth, and she shuddered.

“Come back in an hour.” She turned away from them, powering on a machine. Trott wondered if she had any magical talent, what she could see or sense that made her so uneasy. Poor little human girl. He grinned at her tense back, and pushed Sips towards the escalator. Best not to let Ross and Smith come back around here, either way. She might just run away entirely.

* * *

The girl behind the pretzel counter blushed as Smith leaned forward, and pushed her long honey colored hair off her shoulder. He was doing that thing again, smiling and tilting his head to the side in a way that made people want to reach over and brush his messy auburn hair out of his face. Ross rolled his eyes, and picked up the tray of pretzels. He didn’t know if Smith did it on purpose, or just got so in the habit of doing it he forgot to turn the charm off. The girl behind the register continued to stare at him, pink cheeked.

“Come on, you get the drinks.” He smacked Smith with his tail, pretending it was an accident. They carried their food back towards the table in the middle of the food court. Sunlight from the narrow skylights barely illuminated the space. Vaguely neon colored lights glowed around the edges of the ceiling, unchanged since the opening of the mall. Waxy green plants that looked somehow fake sat in giant concrete pots scattered around the food court. The tile floors were worn, black and white patterns. There was something vaguely dilapidated about it, a sense of grime despite a janitor slowly clearing off tables and emptying trash cans.  

“I love shitty mall court food,” Sips said with satisfaction as he unwrapped a chicken sandwich. “It’s always chicken sandwiches and ice cream and junk. I wonder if they still have an Orange Julius around somewhere. I haven’t had one of those in forever.”

Trott raised an unenthusiastic eyebrow at the fried chicken sandwich with it’s single pickle slice and crumpled, greasy bun. He ate a waffle fry instead.

“I didn’t know you could get pretzels in so many flavors.” Ross pushed the tray to the center of the table. “Sour cream and onion, cinnamon, pepperoni or jalapeno pretzel? Trott? Sips?”

Sips laughed and reached over to take a piece of pretzel. Smith handed Trott a soda and leaned back in his chair, watching the people of the food court. Arms hooked over the back of his chair and Trott’s, he was uncharacteristically quiet. Trott nudged him under the table.

“Not here,” Trott said softly. Smith reluctantly pulled his gaze away from a couple a few tables away. They seemed confused for a moment, as if they both lost their train of thought at the same time. Laughing, they looked at each other and resumed their conversation. Smith blinked, focusing on Trott.

“But-”

“Didn’t you eat last night?” asked Trott, his voice still low. He chewed a handful of fries, one elbow resting on the dingy formica table.

“No.” Smith shook his head, and picked up a soda instead. Trott licked his fingers, savoring the salt.

“What were you doing last night then?”

“Nothing, really.” Smith sucked at his straw, gaze flitting around the food court.

Trott narrowed his eyes. It probably was nothing. Smith was only cagey like this when he wanted to provoke, and never because he had anything real to hide. He put it from his thoughts, instead reaching for one of the pretzels. Across the table, Sips and Ross debated the merits of each flavor quite seriously. Smith chewed on his ice cubes, reaching from time to time for Trott’s fries.

“I actually need something, you two keep an eye on Sips.” Trott wiped his hands clean and stood up.

“I’m going with Trott,” Smith declared suddenly, pushing away from the table.

“Are you?” Trott looked at him skeptically.

“If you’re buying clothes you need someone to tell you how they look, don’t you?”

Trott laughed.

“Because your good opinion is clearly all I need.” He slung an arm around Smith.

“Do you want any ice cream?” Ross asked suddenly. He pointed at the stand advertising “the ice cream of the future” across the food court. They had balloons today, yellow and blue.

“Are you still hungry?” Smith handed Ross a crumpled handful of bills.

“Kind of?”

“Mate, it’s a good thing you can’t get fat, the way you eat.” Smith poked him in the chest, delighted by the sheepish expression on Ross’ face. “Wait, can you? There’s chubby gargoyles-”

“Fuck off,” Ross laughed, pushing Smith away. Sips grinned, finishing off a pretzel.

“Do not lose your bags.” Trott pointed at Ross and waited until he nodded. “We’ll be back in a little bit, alright.”

“Don’t spend too long fucking,” Sips said too loudly. Smith made an obscene gesture at him as he walked backwards from the table. A woman nearby glared and pushed a stroller away in a hurry. Sips stuck his tongue out at her back, making a childish face of annoyance.

“What flavor ice cream do you want?” Ross asked, getting up and stretching. His tail knocked into some of the chairs.

“Whatever your second choice is,” Sips replied, pushing the trash around on the table. “You’re going to end up eating half of it anyway.”

“Rocky road and birthday cake it is then.”  

“I want the rocky road. And ask them if there’s an Orange Julius around here!” Sips put his feet up on a chair, sucking down the last of his soda.

* * *

Trott looked at himself in the mirror, then at Smith on the bench in the tiny changing room.

“This looks alright, yeah?” Trott fiddled with the buttons on the dress shirt. Smith leaned his head back against the wall, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“I like the purple one better,” Smith declared, pointing at the plaid shirt still on the hangar. “Put that one on.”

Trott raised his eyebrows, and began unfastening the buttons. Smith watched him undress, slouching and stretching out his legs to take up most of the available space.

“Well?” Trott challenged, pulling on the purple shirt. He rolled up the sleeves, watching Smith more than his reflection.

“Looks good.” Smith blatantly looked him up and down as Trott stepped between Smith’s legs. Not that there was much room to stand anywhere else. The dressing room was very small.

“How good?” asked Trott, his voice dropping. Smith sat up, reaching out to stroke a hand up Trott’s thigh. He looked up through his lashes and his messy hair as he leaned forward.

“You’d look good in just the shirt.” His fingers lingered on Trott’s belt, unfastening the buckle.

“Hmmm.” Trott watched in the mirror on his left as Smith slowly unzipped his jeans. His hands pressed into Trott’s hips, pulling down his jeans and boxer briefs. Trott sighed with pleasure as Smith kissed the tip of his rising cock. His fingers spread through the dark hair curling at the base, over the tense curve of Trott’s stomach. With his deliberate and challenging stare, Smith looked up at Trott. They stared at each other as Smith opened his mouth, taking just the head of Trott’s cock between his lips.

Sucking in a breath, Trott urged Smith further down. He cupped the back of Smith’s head, fingers weaving into his hair. Teeth grazed his skin, the threat of danger as exciting as the risk of discovery in the dressing room. Smith pressed his tongue flat against the underside of his cock as he pulled back. Trott swallowed a moan, bracing himself against the mirror with one hand. Smith’s head bobbed, his hand following his mouth up and down Trott’s cock. His fingers moved in the slippery mess of saliva and pre-come on Trott’s skin.

“That’s it, sunshine,” Trott swallowed, eyes closing. Sweat trickled down the small of his back in the tiny, stuffy room. He turned his face into his arm, stifling his moans. They hadn’t even bothered with magic to shield their presence, Smith just pushed his way into the dressing room behind Trott. He didn’t want some fussy shop clerk to interrupt them now.  Trott felt more than heard Smith’s answering moan, the rumble going straight from his cock to his spine. One hand gripped Trott’s thigh, sliding up the curve of his ass.

He let his hips rock slightly into Smith’s touch. The hand around his cock squeezed a little harder. Trott clenched his jaw against the sounds he wanted to make, breathing hard through his nose. Each time Smith dipped down, Trott pushed him a little further. The heavy, obliterating pleasure of Smith sucking him off made him feel light headed, wobbly on his feet. Trott’s hand slipped on the mirror and he gasped despite his best intentions. Smith pulled off and squeezed him again, sliding his fingers over the head of Trott’s cock.

“Fuck, Smith,” hissed Trott, pushing hard on the back of Smith’s head. Opening his eyes, he took in Smith’s flushed cheeks and lips, his smirk and intense blue green eyes. Arousal bubbled in Trott’s veins as Smith wrapped his lips around his cock again. He felt the tightness in his groin, the agonizingly long moment where he hovered on the brink before he came. Trott mouthed obscenities, silent except for his ragged breathing. Smith stroked him, slowing his movements as he swallowed. Head hanging forward, Trott shivered with pleasure.

Smith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sitting up. Trott stroked his face, and leaned down to kiss him.

“I think you should buy the shirt,” Smith said, finally pulling away. He was flushed and grinning.

“Does it always come with blow jobs?”

“Maybe? Seems worth a shot.”

Trott pulled up his jeans, still looking at Smith with a half smile. He reached out and plucked a tiny sliver of leaf from his hair.

“What were you two doing last night?” he asked, bemused.

“Running,” Smith answered, slumping back against the wall.

“From what?”

“Nothing.” Smith shook his head, hesitating for a moment. Whatever thought made him pause passed quickly, and he resumed the story. “Ross just wanted to see, that’s all.”

“See what?” Trott pulled off the plaid shirt and put it back on the hangar.

“Me. You know.” Smith gestured vaguely, and Trott nodded. Seeing Smith as a horse was something interesting.

“No taking Ross for a ride,” Trott said casually as he pulled on his t-shirt.

“I know that.” Smith folded his arms, sulking. Trott reached out and lifted his head, fingers under Smith’s chin.

“I still think we should enter you in the races, make some money,” Trott teased, his fingers scratching Smith’s stubble. Smith laughed.

“Be a little strange if the jockey disappeared every time.”

“Just have to find one you don’t want to eat.”

 

* * *

Ross crouched on the edge of the fountain, ignoring the curious glances from other shoppers. He tossed coins one by one into the water, his gaze intense and inward. Each time, he made a wish. Sips had told him it was tradition, that you always threw coins in fountains if you could. It was supposed to be lucky. He thought of the font in the church, the holy water, the offering box, and the bright clink of coins on Sundays. He flipped another coin into the water, watching the ripples spread. He wished carefully for the happiness of his court, for their safety. Ross was pretty sure he couldn’t do magic, at least not like Trott. But maybe this was something else. People did this, and Sips was so certain about it. He flicked another coin into the fountain, watching the silver flash in the water. The bottom of the fountain was littered with copper and and silver coins, almost like a mosaic.

Trott laid a hand on shoulder, drawing him from his reverie. He glanced from Ross to the fountain, curious about what he was doing and slightly relieved he wasn’t actually in the fountain this time.

“Where’s Sips?” He glanced down, checking to see Ross still had his bags. They were piled against the edge of the fountain.

“He gave me his change, told me to make a wish at the fountain.” Ross looked around, realizing Sips was gone. He caught the perturbed look on Trott’s face and rose, a sliver of dread in his throat.

“You were supposed to keep an eye on him,” Smith snapped, catching the uneasy mood. Trott smacked him in the chest with his one hand, motioning for him to hush. He narrowed his eyes and looked back at Ross.

“Did he say anything, sunshine?”

“No.” Ross shook his head. “He was just sitting on the bench, eating ice cream.”

“I’m sure he’s not far.” Trott grabbed Smith’s arm, pulling him along. “Grab your stuff and let’s go find him.”

They walked through the mall, back towards the food court. Ross roamed the upper level while Smith and Trott searched the ground floor. The afternoon crowds flowed around them, restless teenagers, surly young mothers with children in tow and slow elderly mall couples. Smith slipped into a game store, hoping to find him playing on the demo machines. On a hunch Trott passed the embroidery kiosk, but it was shuttered, no sign of the teenage employee or Sips. Trott hoped that wasn’t a bad sign, suppressing the flutter of anxiety in his stomach.

Upstairs, Ross anxiously circled the food court in case Sips was buying more ice cream or something else to drink. The minutes dragged on with no sign of him, making them all edgy. The mall crowds were maddening, constantly underfoot and in the way.

“Where is he?” Smith growled, an anxious crease in his forehead as they walked closer to the end of the building. Perhaps they’d missed him, or he was in a bathroom somewhere. Smith stretched up on his toes, looking over the heads of the people around them.

Trott suddenly nudged him sharply in the ribs, his bag banging into Smith. Ahead of them was a vacant storefront, temporarily occupied by a line of massage chairs. Several elderly people appeared to be sleeping in them, under signs advertising their multiple settings and easy payment plans. Sips was snoring in the one on the end. A teenage employee ignored the entire lot, talking on his phone.

“Call Ross,” Trott ordered, walking towards Sips. He glanced around, searching the place for magic. He couldn’t sense any other fae in the general vicinity. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Still, Trott used every sense he had to search for danger.

Smith pulled out his latest phone, and texted Ross. It took him a moment to remember his number. Smith couldn’t keep a phone working for very long. They tended to get waterlogged. This one still had the previous owner’s photo as the background, a cheerful blonde girl posed on a beach blanket with a bunch of coconuts. He’d kept it for her tiny white bikini and long, tanned legs. Smith leaned against the wall to wait. In a few minutes Ross appeared, a crowd of teenagers scattering like pigeons in front of him. They entered the gloomy storefront, the enormous plastic banners screening off the mostly empty space. Trott stood beside Sips’ chair, frowning.

“Sips, what are you doing?” Smith kicked the chair, rousing him. Sips blinked, arms tightening around a bag. He yawned, unconcerned by Smith’s ire.

“I was taking a nap, jeez.” Sips peered at them from under the brim of his hat. The golden crown gleamed, all shiny and new on the brim. Trott wondered how hard it would be to put some kind of tracking charm in the hat. It would probably save them all a lot of anxiety.

“What made you want to take a nap?” Trott asked, his voice sharp. He considered what sort of spells could draw someone away, make them sleepy.

“Maybe because I ate a bunch of fucking mall trash and I’m tired?” Sips shot back, eyes narrowed. Trott looked uncertain for a moment, before nodding. He couldn’t sense anything. Maybe it had been that simple, and not some trap. He rubbed at his face, settling himself.

“Nice _hat_ ,” Trott smirked as Sips clambered out of the chair. Soon as they got home, he’d get his hands on it and see what he could do. Slap a nice tracking charm in there and anything else he could think of to protect their king. He might want to wear a cheap hat, but Trott would be damned it wasn’t enchanted with everything he could cram in there. A human king was so frail, and Trott wasn’t about to let anyone prove it. It was madness, he thought. But that made it exciting. No one knew what to expect.

“Nice _crown_ ,” Ross said pointedly.

“Isn’t it?” Sips looked smug as he clambered out of the chair.

“For fuck’s sake,” Smith groaned. “You’re joking, right? Trott, tell him that is not a crown.”

“It’s got a crown on it, sweet cheeks.” Sips tapped the brim of his cap. “It sure as hell counts.”

“You _have_ a crown, damn it!” Smith exclaimed, a little too loudly. One of the dozing old men grumbled incoherently at them from the next chair. The teenager in his oversized polo shirt didn’t spare them a glance. Trott looked around, half exasperated and half amused.

“Move it,” he said, pushing Smith unceremoniously out of the dim storefront. He wanted them out of the mall before they spoiled everything, and got themselves banned from another shopping center. Smith whined under his breath, resisting Trott’s shoves.

“What do you think?” Sips asked, looking at Ross. He cocked his head to one side, his expression curious.

“It suits you,” Ross said thoughtfully. Delighted, Sips slapped him on the back.

“A man of taste,” Sips approved. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Technically, not a man,” Ross pointed out as they followed Trott and Smith to the parking lot.

“Gargoyle, whatever.” Sips dug out a pair of Smith’s sunglasses as they stepped into the late afternoon sunlight. Ahead of them, Trott shoved a hand in the back pocket of Smith’s jeans while they walked towards the car.

**Author's Note:**

> The crown stolen from the museum is the Russian Field tiara of Empress Maria Feodorovna, wife of Tsar Paul I. The original was sold by the Soviet government and no longer exists. 
> 
> All the mall food actually exists.


End file.
